Wizard's Gate Redone
by Rabidus Lex
Summary: Old friends will reunite, an old site re-discovered, an old wizard resurrected Should have added this before...please review, would really appreciate it!
1. the Boy in the Attic

**This Story has been revamped, as the original story had some glitches that spoiled the ending. I extend my sincerest apologies to those who read the earlier work, for which I am thankful; hopefully you enjoy the new version!**

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><p><strong>the Boy in the Attic<strong>

He watched through the great pane windows, as the children played, somehow avoiding soiling their brand new suites and dresses; he could not help but smile innocently as they saw the joy in their faces, more real and true, carefree and unburdened by the niceties that otherwise govern the rest of the world. He smiled; his drink still untouched.

"It seems so simple doesn't it?" came the Minister's soft voice, as he stood besides him; a drink, barely touched as was his, clutched firmly in his right hand.

He didn't reply.

"She was beautiful, she has a true gift" he said, as he turned his attention to the little girl in the bright pink gown, her golden curls floating in the breeze as she played with her friends; it was hard to imagine that this was the same girl that had minutes ago been enthralling the gathered crowd with her cello; looking and sounding every bit the master artist.

"Regina works hard with her," He didn't need to be told what was meant by that; he stole a quick glance over his shoulder towards the grand living room, at the tall, beautiful woman in the flowing red gown.

"She must be quite proud of her!"

"She is…we both are! I just wished she would…." he said, with a strange sense of longing in his face.

"Do you mind if I take a walk around the house, Mr. Minister?" he asked, after a short pause.

"Of cause not," the Minister said, turning towards him for a second, then, unconsciously taking a sip from his drink having turned back towards the view outside. "I guess I better return back to the party" he said, taking another sip as he stared at some distant spot in the distance.

"Thank you," he said, placing his glass on a nearby stool for the waiters to pick up. He proceeded to walk out of the room; wading his way through the throng of those gathered inside.

He stepped out from the red living room into the narrower but still spacious white hallway; taking a few seconds to get accustom to the sudden change in hue and brightness.

The hallway was wide enough to easily accommodate four men if not for the antique artefacts that lined either side of the red velvet carpet; but he gave neither them nor the many faces of old masters that watched him lifelessly from behind gilded frames, any more thought than a cursory curious glance.

He took the grand stairway, under the glare of more ancient lifeless faces, up towards the third floor of the mansion, and into another spacious and opulent hallway. Tucked in between all the doorways lining it lay a single narrow doorway opening into another stairway barely wide enough to accommodate a single person.

He hesitated for a second, before finally climbing the bare and simple steps.

The Attic looked quite bleak in comparison to the rest of the house; devoid of any decorations: the lighting was simple, like what one would find in any average house, no great chandelier or ivory-white fittings with gold trimmings, no vases of exotic plants, no antiques, and except for a single portrait of a white-haired man (he had never seen before) and a family portrait with the Minister, his wife and daughter, smiling from some tropical getaway, resting next to a king-size bed – the only real sign of that same opulence downstairs – no portraits or pictures adorned the hospital-white walls.

A small wooden box, intricately carved, lay hidden away from that rare inspection – a recent present, smuggled in – next to a simple doubled door wardrobe, and a roll-up antique desk added in still failed to dispense the feeling of emptiness that filled the room.

It was almost like a different house entirely.

The sole occupier of the room, the man of this house, sat alone in a corner; bathe in the glow of the noon sun flowing in through one of the several plane glass windows. Bent over a table, his face resting on small hands, he seemed oblivious to all except the cards that lay neatly before him; even though his feet, upon the uncarpeted wooden floor, could not have been noisier had they been lose.

"Hello James, May I join you?" he asked, as he gestured to the vacant seat.

The young boy merely nodded his head, and in that few seconds that he saw the boy's eyes, before they fell back upon the cards, he couldn't help but feel a tingle run up his spine; the combination of short white hair and almost-white blue eyes, vacant of any emotion, worked to create an eerie image to any who first glanced upon him.

His eyes fell upon a chess set, as his eyes wondered while he waited patiently, neglected; they lit up with recognition and hope.

"Knight to C4," he called out to the knight still standing, his euphoria died when it made no signs of obeying.

'Was it merely a coincidence; that they, like all things in this house, were no more magical?' he wondered, as he again tried in vain with another piece, and then another; which earned him a look from the boy. He smiled, and the kid went back to his deck.

"Do you play," he asked, James just nodded, already losing interest.

"With your parents?" he nodded his head,

"Mostly with myself," James added.

"What are you playing?"

"Solitaire"

"Do you believe in Magic James?" he asked hopefully, and the cards disappeared into a neat stack, shuffled, and then spread out before him.

"All the cards are normal, and all 52 cards present," James said with showmanship, but without the excitement or enthusiasm that was to go with it. He just nodded in acceptance. James then arranged them back into a neat deck, his actions simple and fluid, as if done without any thought.

"You may shuffle the deck if you wish!"

"I trust you," he said with a smile. James paused, as if he was uncertain of what the word meant, and then proceeded to shuffle the deck again, with that same expertise he had shown earlier.

Once again he spread the cards before him, this time face down, and then pulled out a wand. His breath paused midway inside, before realizing that it was fake; bought from some muggle-novelty store. James ran the wand over the cards and said 'abracadabra' again without much enthusiasm.

"Pick a card any card," James said and he did; checking it once, before holding it close to his heart.

"You have the Ace of Spades," without even a fake pause

"How do you know?"

"Because, you don't have any of the Kings" James said and he stared at the kid, his eyes open wide, until James turned the cards over to reveal a neat row of kings staring back at him; he stared into those eyes again, but saw nothing. 'It was just part of the trick' he told himself.

"Very good James," he said, 'even if it was just a parlor trick'.

They talked, James surprisingly open than he first imagined. Though it was a fact-finding mission, he found that the longer he stayed with the kid, the closer he felt, and the more he wished he could have spent more time with him; there was warmth in those pale eyes – that for a second made him question everything– but though he did his best to stretch the conversation, he knew that time was not a luxury he enjoyed, and would not do to delay.

"Good bye James, it was a pleasure meeting you," he said finally, stretching his hand towards him.

"Goodbye Sir" he said, rising from his own seat.

"Are you alright on your own?"

"Yes sir," he said, taking his seat once more as he walked away.

Lupin took one last long look back at the boy, who had returned to his game of solitaire ones more, before heading back towards the stairway. He was, to his own surprise, disappointed to find that Jason was normal, well in comparison, and that was what he would report.

Maybe he would make another visit, maybe this time it wouldn't be on Ministry business; if Regina would allow.


	2. Manic Monday

**Sorry it took this long. I wrote it and then erased it, then wrote it and then erased it, and then wrote it and...lost the eraser...so finally its up; thanks for the patience.**

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><p><strong>Manic Monday<strong>

The sounds of her heels, beating against the tiled floor, as she walked hurriedly towards her destination, mixed with the din of voices and sounds that otherwise filled the space between the glass panes and concrete walls.

She wanted to run, but feared it might not be proper. She was already an hour and half late, for her appointment. She had not been able to keep the ones before, postponing them again and again; she had promised herself the last would be the last time she did. But once again, she found herself caught in her work that she lost all track of time.

Just a few feet away she paused as she caught a glance at the figure seated patiently at a table outside the coffee shop, like the one in the lobby.

She smiled as she watched him, hunched over a deck of cards spread out in front of him; like an image frozen in time.

He was not the boy she had ones known, the effects of all the years were apparent; his blonde hair was longer, almost shoulder length, he was now slightly taller than her, his oval face was more distinct, especially the characteristic roman nose, and the hands that held it stronger. But for all the physical changers, he was still the shy, sensitive, boy she knew all those years, the one who had been her best and closest friend, and the one who influenced her life more in the short period they knew each other than anyone else in her life; it was as if the days had not passed, that the last they talked was but eight days ago and not eight years.

She watched him for a few seconds more, as he continued with his game of solitaire seemingly oblivious to the world around him, to the people that walked by throwing the occasional glance his way; some where just curious, as to why he was seated alone, at one of the most expensive cafes, eating or drinking nothing. She of cause knew the truth: he chose the café because it was almost always empty, quiet, and peaceful, and he had no drinks or food, because he was waiting for her to come; as he always would.

Nevertheless, she also knew that some of the glances, from women, young and old, were not so innocent. Even with his hair, which (unfortunately) reminded her of Malfroy, she had no difficulties in seeing what those girls saw; but he never seem to have the same reaction to them or at least never showed it.

Without even raising his eyes away from the cards, as she got close, he slid them back into a neat little pile, and replaced them inside one of the many jacket pockets. She again smiled, her earlier worries forgotten; she never did find out how he always knew she was there, she had even used a different and more poignant scent today.

He walked up to her, as she neared the table, taking her coat.

"I'm sorry I'm late, I had…" she started, as he helped her to her seat.

"There is no explanations needed, you are a hard worker and you love your work" he said, before she could finish.

"How was work at the Ministry of…Interior? …Justice? …Defense?" he asked with a grin as he returned to his own seat, and she just smiled. "You're a spy, working for MI6, right, and I am your cover?" She smiled again.

"Would that be a problem?"

"Anything for Queen and Country," he said, and she laughed again; she was glad to be able to laugh.

"Are you alright," he asked, and only then did she realize that her mind had again wondered away, barely a second later. She didn't answer, just nodded her head.

"Are you sure, you look exhausted."

"I am alright, promise. I just had a long day that's all!"

"You look like it. I could take you home; we could always do this another time!" he said, the look of worry intense in his face.

"No," she said a little too fast, "it was just paperwork. Besides I'm fine now, I promise." She said trying a forced smile. The thing was that she knew she might not be able to find another date, and she needed the distraction.

"You're an intern, are you not suppose to be doing coffee runs and courier work?" he asked with a grin, and again she founder her self laughing, but it was more of a guilty laugh, as her mind wondered.

The thing was that, though her usual work revolves around doing paperwork for her boss the Permanent Secretary – preparing reports, helping make recommendations and give advice when required – and though that was what she was doing then, it was not what the day had held for her.

Suddenly she was at her desk, in a far corner of the main floor space of the Department, surrounded by mountains of files, records, books and other documents that had become her life since joining the Department as an Apprentice.

She was hunched over her desk, partly obscured by the documents neatly scattered across it, trying hard to stop her mind from wondering after the call, when the door to her mentor's office opened. Her head immediately turned up from her work and towards it, just as the tall, slender frame of the Permanent Secretary Calix Windsor appeared through it

"Ms. Granger," came, the almost harmonic, tone of the Department Head, as he glided passed her; carrying himself with the same flair as a Monarch groomed from infancy.

But when she heard her name again, and again, she realised that the voice, though similar, was not that of her mentor. She snapped out to find Daemon watching her with concern.

"Are you sure you're alright?"

"Yes, just had a weird day!" she replied.

Weird, considering her life has for a long time been anything but normal, was still an appropriate way to describe the day she had. Not only had her boss called her personally, by name – and then proceeded on without another word or gesture, leaving her staring at him bemused and wondering whether he had called out her name as gift to one of his adoring fans, or had imagined it out of some unacknowledged desire – she found herself spending the day with him and Channer; his son and only person able to overshadow Calix in the eyes of the girls, who not surprisingly form the majority in the office, who worked with her.

Channer was every bit like his father: tall, slender and graceful with a thick head of blonde hair that, unlike Daemon's tousled look, was always neatly groomed and trimmed. His blue eyes, like that of his father's, was piercing and deep, unlike Daemon's light blue which burned bright and intense, sweeping, as if constantly watching and processing everything around.

He was clean cut, unlike his father, no neatly tripped moustache; and he had the same old English accent, that made cross-Atlantic girls swoon, like Daemon's, his lacked that hint that would be termed snobbish by most. He was also more accessible, more friendly and helpful, like when with a simple nod of his head he put her out of the misery his father had placed her in. He was more athletic for the simple reason that he preferred field work rather than deal with the bureaucracy of office work; therefore rarely seen in the department; also the cause of his heighten popularity.

Lost in thought of the Windsor men, she did not realise that Daemon had walked out, until she caught a glance of him out of the corner of her eye standing next to her. He was standing, holding two drinks to go and a packet; she didn't need to ask what was in either.

"Come on,"

"I don't need to go home, I'm alright!"

"No your not, and were not going home. And don't say you had a lot of paperwork; when I said you look exhausted I didn't mean physically exhausted. You are a strong girl Hermione, stronger than most girls I know, so whatever it is, whether it is coffee you delivered late, or the tea you added too much sugar to, or the Nuclear war you started in some poor third-world Country, I know its big and you need something to distract your mind from it before it drives me insane. So, no buts, your doing exactly as I say and that's final, you hear!" he said, taking her hand. She laughed, nodded, and allowed him to take here wherever he had planned.


	3. ManEater

**Please don't think I have reformed, I already had more than 2/3rds of this story, just had to fill in the blanks. Be back to my old drawn out process soon**

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><p><strong>Man-Eater<strong>

Sitting alone in the privacy of her bedroom, cuddling her own feet, her head resting upon the raised knees, her brown eyes focused on the wall; lost in her own thoughts. She was feeling worse than she had felt before, even though Daemon had gone to great lengths to take her mind away from the troubles.

The problem was that Daemon had been such a good friend to her today; that he had actually been able to do just that; keep her happy, make her laugh, to actually have a good time. Yet, all she had done to him was lie.

The thing was that it wasn't even necessary for her to lie to him at all, the Ministry of Magic was in itself a testament to that fact: she had told him that she worked at the Ministry, since that first day when they had re-acquainted themselves, and yet, except for the occasional joke, he never pushed her to ask which or what she did there; all the times she had been unable to make it to their dates, all she had needed to do was tell him she had work.

It was not a case of any lack of interest, she knew him too well to think that.

However, in this case she didn't even have to be half-hearted. She could have been totally honest with him. Except the morning itself, she spent no more time around magic than she did when she was with him.

From the minute she had followed the Permanent Secretary and his son into the Floo-network her day had been bizarrely normal. No magic, no wizards or witches, and no strange creatures that would have taken quite the imagination to explain away.

But none of that was the real reason she was feeling so down, all that she experienced at work she could have handled as she always did, the telephone call she had got that day was what really troubled her, till now; that which weighed most heavily on her mind. Not because of what was said in it, but because of it. And she had kept it from him, denied its existence.

However, with that simple thought she found her mind ones again drifting back towards that phone call; after all those hours trying to forget it.

For all her efforts she could not even come close to making sense of it; to comprehend what it all meant; and so it troubled her, running through her mind over and over again:

'Why had Ron suddenly decided to call her then, after all those months of silence, and why, of all things, did he want tell her all that!'

At least he sounded excited, maybe he was actually having a good time, doing what he liked; they had all changed somewhat since the events of the past, so maybe Ron had to; he did change a lot in the years they had been in Hogwarts. Yet, for all that reassurances she kept repeating to herself, as she had done throughout the day, she could not help sensing something in his voice that made her feel otherwise.

'Ron what have you gotten yourself into?'

The strands of his red hair, growing red in the rays of the sun, stood stuck to his pale forehead, soaked in the sweat flowing down his face. His eyes closed, his heart beating hard against his chest; threatening to burst out like in some cartoon.

Slowly and forcefully he opened his eyes, glancing through the corner of his eye through the hole that stood for a window, scanning the dirt streets outside. They were, as he knew the mud housed that lined them were, empty; an eerie stillness that did more to raise the terror than any sound.

He pulled back his face, standing against the muddy wall, his back and open hands against them; standing as if on a thin ledge, rather than a wide room.

The village in which he found himself now was small, barely the size of a city block, and yet alone in this house, with the thought that no other life would be found anywhere within it, it felt larger than the city of London itself.

He closed his eyes again…the wait was unbearable.

"Ron" called out a familiar voice from beyond the door, from somewhere close and his heart almost bust out. A soft whimper escaped his mouth, as he fought to stay strong.

He turned towards the door, forcing himself to undo the latches that kept it locked, and then to grip the crude knob that formed its handle. It opened easily though slowly in his hands.

He felt a force against it, and heard the sound of cracking wood, as he found himself flying through the room; the door knob still clutched in his hands, and the door with it.

The force had torn the hinges from their fragile frames.

He slammed against the far-wall, and fell upon the mud floor, the wind rushing out from his lungs. He fought to keep his conscious, as his head throbbed from the blow it had received.

He barely had time to think before he felt a great weight upon him, as the thing leaped through the open doorway and on to the door itself. The first conscious thought that sprang to his head was that of panic and fear.

There was another sound of cracking wood, as razor sharp teeth ripped into the wood, now between him and his attacker; he gazed, frozen, at the silvery teeth that poked through it.

It pulled its jaws back, ripping chunks of wood with it, and for a slight second he felt its weight shift. Moving swiftly, he threw all his strength to throw the door aside and with it the creature.

He was on his feet in a flash and racing out the door, without a second's glance towards the thing that had attacked him. His feet almost slipped as he tried to turn without stopping, kicking up a small cloud of red dirt.

He ran down the streets, without a general idea of where he was running, just wishing to place as much distance as he could between him and it.

He didn't bother to take a look back, as he heard the hard breathing of the thing behind him; like that of a dog on the hunt. He fought the instinctive desire to increase speed, as the sound of the beast grew louder. Instead he turned directions, darting down a side street, almost smiling as he heard the beast slide as it tried to follow.

He worried he had lost it, and almost slowed and turned around, when he caught sight of it in the corner of his eyes; it had taken another side street and was now running almost parallel to him. Not good.

He continued to run, slowing down, letting it come neck and neck with him, then before again turning to run in the original direction; this time making sure the thing followed him. As an after thought, he hoped he was running in the right direction.

He ran towards the edge of the village, out into the trail that led into the forests beyond, the creature still hot upon his tail. It was clearly not made for the long dash, but it still kept the chase going, having failed in taking its prey down as planned.

But as the beast itself found itself at odds to keep the chase, so did he. His body craved for rest, while his mind screamed for him to keep going; demanding of his worn out body to run faster. His muscles ached, threatening to lock on him, every breath came harder still, only his heart seemed at full beat; beating harder and harder against his chest.

He ran past the stones, at each end of the trail, halfway in between the forest and the village, two puny guardians watching over the sleepy village. Then he fell, tripped on an unseen root or stone, twisting in mid air, coming down hard on his ass and hands.

The creature too slowed down to a crawl, panting, as it neared those two stones, its bloodshot eyes staring down to him.

For the first-time he saw the beast, and the fear he felt inside grew. It was a hideous thing, built like mad-man's version of a hyena; far larger than the original and far more sinister. It was furless, with leathery skin, a ridge clearly apparent running down from its head to its whip-like tail. Sharp long claws protruded from its feet, designed to rip through the hardest of hides. But for all its features, it was the grin plastered on its face, revealing those rows of razor sharp teeth, was what scared him the most; it was like that of some sinister clown from a nightmare not yet forgotten.

It was within inches from him, about to leap, when suddenly it found it trapped in a strange sort of net, formed of glowing blue rays, suddenly appearing from all sides of it. He tried to break free, struggling within it, but its own immunity to magical spells work against it, trapping it safely within.

The creature's, bloodshot eyes returned towards him, and fixed upon him a look of pure terror. Ron gulped, as he pushed back a few more feet, before starting to get back on his feet.

He wanted to be as far away from this beast as he could, just in case, yet, he found himself transfixed on it. But his trance was broken, when he heard his name ones more, in a higher soprano, musical, voice and he turned with terror towards it. Before he could react to this new character, he found two skinny hands wrapped around his neck, and a warm body against his own; the feel of strands of silk under his chin and whiffs of jasmine filling his nostrils.

"You were so brave," she said as she continued to hug him. But he barely heard her, as his attention ones again returned to the monster that not so long ago been snapping at his ankles. Instead of images of a short girl, barely taller than Hermione, with long messy black hair, green almond shaped eyes, and dressed in a short skirt revealing knobble knees; Henrietta, as he had himself told before, was flawless as a girl, if not for that single scar upon her forehead; yet still his mind was consumed by that beast.

"Yes Mr. Weasley, not badly done," said another voice, with none of the sincerity that was in Harriett's. "Now if you don't mind Mz. Po'tter, kindly let go of Mr. Weasley before you suffocate him with your show of appreciation."

No sooner had the words spoken, Harriett let go of Ron and stepped back, as if he was somehow diseased. She lowered her head, her green eyes staring down at her shuffling feet, her black hair falling covering the face like a veil. Though he would have been glad to be free of her grip, hearing her name made Ron flinch, as the image of the girl came to him, and so too of those memories that went with her.

Ron turned from the beast towards the man who had walked out into the clearing with another group of young and younger individuals. He was tall, slim, with rounded shoulders, and skin tanned from several years of sun and wind. His most characteristic features though were those fiery red hair, and mustache, both of which were at all times meticulously kept. Cool masterful eyes took in the scene before, as the man himself stood at the edge of the trail, his slender hands at his waist, with an aura of authority deserving of the reputation that followed.

Lord John Byron, pulled out an old fashioned pipe, which he immediately set about filling, without another thought towards the beast that now stood; its head lowered and turned towards the great hunter, staring at him, and its tail limp. Ron could understand how it felt in his presence.

"Anthony, kindly sedate the beast, please" he said, to a sheepish little boy standing at the very furthest edge of the crowd that had gathered. He looked at his master with terrified eyes, but then, without another word he walked forward, unwillingly grabbing the crude instrument from another hunter.

For reasons that still remained a mystery to Ron, Anthony, like he had, joined the Department as an Intern, and had discovered first-hand the truth about internships under the reputed hunter was truly like; drawn to him maybe, as he had, by the stories of his heroics that are still heard in every corner of the magical world.

Anthony walked almost like a hunter, stalking a prey with his long spear, under the constant glare of the beast; spared of giggles or laughter only by the presence of Lord John. Ron could see his resolve weakening with every step, and could not help but feel glad that it was not him.

When he was within striking range he stopped.

The creature made no movements, not even the slightest, though its blood shot eyes were fixed on the puny creature that now crept up to him. Nervously he extended the tip towards the leathery hide, stopping several times when he feared it might attack, before finally touching the tip to the beast. He almost leaped out of his skin as it let out a soft snarl, as the dose was administered. Within a few seconds the creature was down.

Lord John, who had until then been staring far into the distant woods, deceptively oblivious to what had gone on, smocking his pipe, turned back the way he came.

"Kindly have it prepare for transport," he said to no one in particular, as he walked away, signaling the end of the days work.


	4. Beasts of England

**Beasts of England**

"Have you ever heard of a creature called the Crocotta?" Hermione asked out of the blue, as she walked down the empty streets with Daemon; walking home.

She turned towards him, looking into his face, but was relieved to find a thoughtful expression on his face rather than that of suspicion; she knew that expression well, it meant he was putting the full brunt of his mental abilities into answering her question. Another factor she loved about him.

"Crocotta, or Corocotta or Yena, is" he began, taking a tone as if presenting an educational program, "is a mythical wolf, said to have been discovered by Pliny the Elder; there are some that say that Pliny's description of the creature is actually the description of the Greek Physician Ctesias, of the Cynolycus."

"So does that mean there is a creature like that? I thought it was just the classification for Hyenas?"

"It is. Well considering the general physical description of the creature, as well as its habit of digging up dead bodies, something that Hyenas are known to do, the general belief is that sightings of Hyenas are the source of sightings of Crocotta.,"

"So they're scavengers?" she asked with surprise in her face.

"No, of cause not, like Hyenas they hunt, even humans; in fact, one of their special traits is their ability to convincingly call out the name of its prey, in order to draw them deep into the forest." He replied with no thought at her expression.

"So would you be surprised if one came inside a village to attack a human?"

"Well it depends on the situation, any number of factors could have brought about a change in its behavior; change of environment, loss of prey. But why are you so interested in a mythical creature." He asked more out of curiosity than out of suspicion.

"We just have been receiving stories of them being sighted, that's all!" She replied, trying to deflect his intrigue, not daring to look at him as she did.

"In England?" he asked, in a matter-of-fact where, merely to clarify.

"Yes why?" she asked, not at all concerned about his attitude; his ability to completely detach himself from the conversation was another reason she found it easy to talk with him on such matters.

"Well then, if you wanted unusual there it is. Crocottas are indigenous to India and Ethiopia! There are no sightings of Crocottas within these great isles." He said.

She went silent for a second, as she tried to take all that he had said; for his part, Daemon said no more, letting her keep her silence.

"How do you know all this?" she asked, then as an afterthought she added, "I mean I couldn't find anyone else who even heard of them!"

Daemon laughed. "Accusing me of fabrication are we?" a grin pasted on his face, as he turned to ask. "Don't worry Hermione, most people wouldn't have heard of the Crocotta, because of its similarity to Hyenas, I doubt if it is even a valid myth like Hydras and Dragons." He continued as she was about to protest her innocence.

"As for my own knowledge on the subject" he said, as he placed his hand over her shoulder, and pulled her gently to him, "my time is centered around a beautiful, smart and kind girl who is a tad bit Workaholic; therefore, I have nothing but time to waste on ridiculous interests." And she smiled.

However, as flattered as she was by what he said, she had trouble imagining Daemon sitting alone at home waiting for her to be free. However, as Daemon has always been open with the fact that he was unemployed – he joked the first time she asked, that he was far too rich to work like commoners – so she was always curious what exactly he did to keep himself busy until today; today she had finally found herself time to lay to rest the mystery of his weekly haunts.

All she had was an address and nothing more, so she was nervous about going – she worried about seeking out what Daemon chose not to speak off – but when she did she was pleasantly surprised; glad even; she had gotten to see a part of him she knew existed all along.

"Don't worry any rumors of Crocottas roaming the countryside could be no more than cases of some zoo or circus having misplaced a hyena or two; I wouldn't put much stock into them."

She wished it was that easy.

She didn't know why she had asked the question in the first place, the thought had jumped out of her mouth before she could stop it; which in itself was unlike her. There was enough questions struggling for her attention that she could have asked without the same consequences or the ability to cause suspicion; she could have easily asked about A&M, the building in which she had found herself that day stepping out of the elevators that still intrigued her in-between her other worries.

She had even walked past the building with its great glass front that had on that day brilliantly flooding the already splendid lobby with golden rays. She could not help but sneak a glance towards it, but the windows were apparently one-way, and did not provide her with another glance.

The mystery of the brain was that somehow her thoughts went from A&M to Ronald Weasly, and she found another good day ruined.

That one final sentence made her worry more about Ron than Ron's entire second by second narration of the story. She didn't doubt a word of what he said then, he was not the type that was into exaggerating. But now: it was unlike Ron to gloat too, and then there was everything else that had happened between them since the war ended was unlike, so maybe…?

"Oh Ron what have you gotten yourself into?"


	5. Crying in the Rain

**Crying in the Rain**

_**Sorry for the delay, unfortunately work came in the way. But I hope this was somewhat worth the wait. Enjoy!**_

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><p>She felt like a war veteran left out in the streets, alone, lost. They're times together at Hogswats seemed like a lifetime ago; even the battles they fought, the adventures, all seem like some strange dream.<p>

Like a sailor slowly dying of thirst while drifting out into sea.

Even though she met most of those girls she went to Hogwarts with in office, even some from her own house Gryffindor, somehow she didn't feel that closeness that allowed for her to be open with them; they had their laughs, their friendly chats, but it was more as colleagues than anything else.

And there was so much she wanted someone to talk with: about magic; about the computer technician whose murder her boss seemed interested in for some reason, though there was nothing magical about the girl, she was at least not registered as a Magician, nor about her death; but most of all she wanted to talk about Ron, about the way he was acting, about his sudden change, without having to feel guilty about it.

She could have probably talked with Daemon, but she feared to open up at least about Ron, for some reason.

She could have gone to Ginny, with whom she had gotten closer ever since her relationship with Harry had moved away from that 'awkward-friends' stage it had been in; they had even shared many secrets, especially her feelings for Ron and Daemon, and Gina had always been understanding and respectful. But then, she didn't want to add to the worries that Ginny must already be having; after all Ron was not the only one who had changed.

It would seem that not all their wounds had healed as fast, and she feared that they might not ever...was that the reason for Harry's dramatic change; he did after all Kill Voldemort.

Suddenly she found her thoughts consumed by her old friend…!

The dark grey walls, old, dull and decaying, created an aura of morbid gloom across the room, but for most of the patrons it mirrored their inner souls; but then, like the rest, they never went to the place for its aesthetic charms, of which there was none, nor for peace and quiet. There was one thing and only one thing anyone every visited the little bar lost in between the alleyways of inner London, that which now filled the crude mug firmly grasped between his hands.

The dark liquid, of the same color and texture as motor oil, his first for the day, remained very much untouched still, as he had spent the time since being served just staring at the liquid.

Seated alone, unhindered by the brush-bys of patrons drunk beyond the elementary skill of straight-walking, and oblivious to the occasional bar fight erupting for some inexplicable reason or another.

The sounds of clanking mugs, laughter and harsh tones merged, before disappearing completely; the minimalist décor of the room hazing before transforming into that of cobblestone paths and moss covered grey stone walls of a narrow alley way; memories caught in still frames, caste against the walls of his mind.

Sounds, not unlike those echoing around him, streaming in from some distant sources all around, toned down into a soft whisper.

The further into the alleyway and the back-alleys that branched out from it, he went the quieter the voices and sounds of civilization got; as did the lights, emanating from the open back windows, leaving only the torches, placed sparsely along the walls of the alleys to guide him as the lighted windows gave way to sheer blank walls.

The sounds of feet against the cobblestones spoke of others present somewhere behind and in the distant, but their faces and identities forever shrouded in mystery.

The sound of the heartbeat was like a drum beating, growing with every step, until suddenly it stopped as did all other sounds.

He was standing before a seemingly ordinary reddish brown door placed against an otherwise blank wall, well lit by the flames of two torches hung on either side; it gave no impressions of strength or durability.

The pause before it seemed endless!

"It doesn't bode well for a young man to waste away his time on memories," came the voice shattering him back to conscious like a stone thrown through a glass window.

"Memories are best kept to learn from, or for nostalgic reasons, than to be burden with," came the voice again, as he began to wonder whether he had in fact heard the voice at all.

He turned towards his right, his green eyes falling upon the image of a man seated on the barstool next to him; his wrinkled face covered by long grey hair and a beard; his voice feeble. He stared at the man – Irish by the slight accent in his voice – in wonderment, and not just as to whether he knew the man; he didn't think he could remember any names any more.

The hands that clasped the mug before him were also wrinkled, and covered in liver spots, trembled slightly.

"Take it from a man who had lived more than his share of lives, memories are things to hold on to, though not best to linger too long in," he continued, even as he tried to ignore the man's presence.

"Do I know you?"

"You must excuse us old fork, my boy. We have a tendency to ramble on; it is the curse of experience, especially when we see a young fella wasting away his life!"

"You don't know the troubles I have!"

"Quite true, no one can know that with any certainty. However, my boy, no trouble can be bad enough to warrant drowning oneself in Essence of Dragon ale; the drink can literally fry one or two brain cells, as is observant from the more regular patrons of the beverage." The man said, and he couldn't help a cursory glance over his shoulder.

"Whatever past act, word or omission that you think you can forget by drinking that stuff, my boy, no matter how bad it may be, it is not as bad as wasting your life pinning over it. We can't live in our past mistakes, we must either, learn from them and strive not repeat them, or forget and forgive. Because the truth is, in life, we lose, my boy, not when we are defeated, for even in defeat we can still rise to victory; we lose when we stop trying."

He had never stopped staring at his drink all through out the conversation, and at no point did the old man ever glance back at him either, but yet the force of the argument was undeniable. He was constrained by all that the old man had told him, and he was grateful for the brief interlude of the silence that fell, whether he wished to or not he needed the time to process all that was told.

The old man finally got up from his seat, his drink still untouched, dropping a few coins on the bar table.

As he turned to walk away he placed a hand on his shoulder, and turned towards him for the first time; the old man's blue eyes burning into his own. He turned his gaze back towards his drink.

"You cannot hide from who you are, Harry, or deny your destiny; you can only give up. While the world will forever be grateful to you for defeating Voldemort, too many people have given up too much for you to give in now."

He tapped Harry's scar as he continued: "Troubles are like Storms, they do not end with the first, so when one weathers one it is always best to be prepared for the next; for the chances are it will be worst!"

"Good day to you Harry, I hope you find your calm!" he said before finally walking away.

Harry watched him disappear past the crowds of other patrons, expertly maneuvering between the swaying obstacles that darted the cramped space; inadvertently he touched his scar.

He couldn't take his eyes from the figure. Even though physically they were worlds apart, especially as the man was far leaner, he couldn't help but be remaindered of another.

The late Albus Dumbledore had been the closest thing to a father figure for him, through out his life, the one man he could always go to for advice, and when he died it felt like he was losing his father all over again. At that time there was so much going on in his life to dampen the effects of the moment, but now it was all came back with a vengeance.

He missed him, as much as he missed all others who had been taken away from him. But he missed him more, especially during times like these when he could have used his sage advice and guidance. He didn't know anyone else he could turn to…all he had left was this drink.

He turned his gaze back towards the drink and stared at it for a couple more seconds, before finally taking a sip…it tasted almost like motor oil, and burned his throat as it made its way down, but after it did, as before, he could feel his memories hazing already.


	6. Not a dry eye in the house

"Where are we?" he asked, his question taking her somewhat by surprise; not because of the question itself, just that, having just used a portkey, she would have assumed he would have been more curious about that. But then Hogsmead tends to shock many who first catch a glimpse at its rustic and dark persona.

She couldn't say why she had chosen to bring him there, maybe it was because even as children he had loved magic, more than her; in fact, it was Daemon who had first introduced her to magic, got her hooked. Then there was that day, she had seen him with the orphans, making them smile as he had ones done with her, assisting a magician he had hired. It had reminded her of all the times he would come to her room, when she was feeling sad or sick; Daemon always had a way of sensing when she needed him most.

She could have believed that was the reason she had dragged him all the way across the woodlands, dressed in his best formal, but then that wouldn't have been true; the truth was much more selfish.

He had looked so stunning, in the black three-piece, he had worn to pick her up (she was grateful he didn't decide to comb his hair back) that she almost lost her breath, as she did then; but the reasons for it now was far more difference, far more opposite than the ones before.

He had followed her without much question or protest, from her home, even as they hiked through the forest and up to the spot where the portkey was; he was always smiling, whether it was that sweet smile she was used to seeing, or a mischievously curious one; when he sensed something exiting was about to happen. But right then there was no smile, and the expression on his face she had never seen before; it was like one of a person to whom a cruel joke had been played.

"Where are we Hermione?" he asked again, when she failed to answer the first time. This time his tone was different, she had never heard it before, just as the expression, and she suddenly felt bad.

"It's Hogsmead?" she replied, but that expression never went away, and he looked at her now as if waiting for more; understandably, but she didn't know how: this was not what she was expecting and now she just wished she had the time-turner.

"It's a village for 'Witches and Wizards', next to Hogswatch where I went to school" she said hopefully.

"You are a witch?"

"Yes!" she said the look in his eyes removing any doubts in her mind that she had made a mistake confessing.

"As in incantations and potions, and all that stuff?"

"Yes, but Daemon, I thought you loved magic? I have seen how you were with the kids, when you were doing your tricks. I thought you would love being in a real magical village" she said, almost pleading with him; she really believed he would be thrilled to finally learn that magic was real, that there was more to it than he had known before.

"Magic yes, WITCHCRAFT NO!" he replied raising his voice. "This is wrong, all wrong, I can't believe you practice this….." but he didn't end that sentence, instead he turned around and began to walk away leaving her standing there, tears almost in her eyes.

"I can't believe you been hiding all this from me, lying to me all this time!" He said, suddenly stopping.

An uncomfortable silence fell between them, as they both stood unmoved.

Then he turned, and he was ones more the Daemon she knew. He walked up to her, put his hand on the side of her face, staring into her eyes; he looked into her the way he always did when he knew she was feeling bad, and smiled a thin smile. Suddenly she wasn't feeling as bad as she did before.

"I am sorry Hermione." He said, and then hugged her. "I love you for confiding in me, for trusting me. It is just a little too much to take in all of a sudden." She wanted to say something, but nothing came, so she just nodded her head.

"Come on were getting late for something, right, this hardly looks the dress code for this place?" he said and she couldn't help but laugh.

They walked together, silently, to Hogwarts; and in that silence she couldn't help but feel bad about what Daemon went through, but more importantly, confused as to his reaction. She was lost in her thoughts that she didn't even realize that they had already reached the Castle.

The sight of the castle caught her breath; as it always did, just as on her first day; seeing it standing against the endless clear skies behind. But today, unlike many other times before, it seemed to be even more breathtaking; decorated as it were with all the color and lights that magic could conjure.

Suddenly remembering Daemon besides her she turned, and was please to see that even he was caught by the beauty before him.

They were soon joined with the steady stream of others that were making their way into the Castle, most of them were fellow students that she had known from back then and some were from the Ministry, but there were also a few she didn't recognize. Daemon didn't seem interested in any of them, even though she introduced him to them; which was surprisingly unlike him. But then what had happened in Hogsmead was still fresh in her mind, and she decided not to push it.

For some reason Daemon had an aversion to Witches and Wizards, she worried about it, especially as she had hoped it would solve one problem between them; but at least he was not angry with her or anything like that.

The Main hall of the castle was decorated as it were during the Yule ball, but unlike then there seemed to have been a sense of toning down of the magical feel there was there. The ballroom with its tapered wall hangings in the different colors of the ministry, and the logo printed in bold gold lettering, seemed to be the only real reminder that this was hosted by the Ministry and not some formal Muggle affair.

A large Ice sculpture of three wizards stood in the middle of the room, circled by tables placed in concentric circles, stretching from thereon, each in the same colors and with the Ministry logo etched on the centerpieces.

However, her interest in the decorations was short lived, before wondering out towards the sea of faces that filled the vacant spaces of the hall; searching.

Her eyes fell upon the familiar fiery red hair of Ginny Weasley, standing alone in one corner of the hall, looking quite bored, and she immediately turned to make way towards her; wondering why she was standing alone, when something caught her attention.

Something that seemed, somewhat, from everything she already knew about Daemon's shy demeanor, to explain his earlier attitude towards her friends, though created a whole lot more confusion in her mind at the same time. Several of the people who she didn't know, and few from the Ministry, kept coming up to Daemon as if they knew him; a feeling that Daemon seemed to reciprocate.

She almost considered asking him about it, when she caught sight of more familiar stock of red hair making towards her.

Her heart nearly stopped when she realized who it was, and even more when she realized he was not alone; not that she was surprised to run into him, she knew deep down it would have happened sometime, and maybe hoped for it, but the sight of him there still struck her hard; most of all the sight of the young girl that was with him (a face familiar and yet strange to her).

After their initial awkward greeting, a silenced came between them, as they glance at any point other than at each other.

Her glance went to the young girl, with perfect white skin, emerald eyes and dark hair that covered a scar; the only exception to an otherwise perfect beauty. Even the thick glasses she wore could not have taken away from her beauty that she could not help but feel that Ron had traded up; if that really was what all this was about.

She wondered how they had come to this, what it was that they had done wrong.

Ron hadn't bothered to introduce the girl to her, and when she wondered about it, she realized she hadn't bothered to introduce Daemon to him either, and it was Daemon who filled the failings on both their parts by introducing himself.

There was something in Ron's expression, when he took Daemon's outstretched hand that, as bad as it may sound, gave her heart hope; a hint of jealousy for the other man.

"So you went to Hogwarts?" Ron coldly asked, but she knew he knew that he didn't

"No sorry, I am more of amateur practitioner myself" Daemon replied which took Ron unawares, and he remained silently not knowing how to react to it.

She was praying for some interlude from all the awkwardness when Ginny walked in-between her brother and Daemon distracting both of them. Before she could introduce Ginny, she took the initiative; Hermione was glad Ginny pretended not to know Daemon, it would have only worsened the situation.

She also did the introductions between Daemon and Harry, which was also fortunate, because there was a sense of coldness between her and Harry that she thought she understood; but then that distance was also there between him and Ginny; was that also because of her?

In the end it was Daemon and Ginny who were having a conversation as the rest of them just watched like awkward spectators; the two of them seemingly oblivious to the atmosphere around them.

As if there was not enough excitement to deal with already, the moment was disrupted by the sound of a voice, as cold as ice; even more than Ron's own.

"Morgan!" the newcomer had said, and Hermione turned in surprise, wondering who had said it and to whom she was referring to. "I didn't expect to see you here!" continued the voice; the implications in the words clear in her tone.

Hermione had no trouble in recognizing the tall, slender figure, with her fair skin and waist-long raven hair. She was surprised to see Lady Regina Callum, the current head of the Wizengamot; it would be hard to not know her, considering that she was the woman single-handedly responsible for, after the defeat of Voldermort, to change Wizengamot into the defining institution in the Ministry; even more than the Minster himself.

However, if the sight of Lady Callum standing next to them was surprising enough, what was even more shocking to Hermione, was when she realized that Daemon respond to her:

"Hello mother," he said, casually, "always a pleasure to see you!"

Hermione didn't know what was more shocking, that Daemon speaking to her with such indifference, the woman, even in her red dress, looked as imposing as in her Wizengamot robes, or that he actually called her mom; the later, not only because she was who she was, but also because, to a lesser extent she was also known to be the wife of the current Minister of Magic; who as it turned-out, had been standing next to his wife all the time.

"Father!" Daemon continued, turning to the stout figure of the amiable Lord Callum, nodding his head in reverence at the same time.

"Morgan, you look well" the Minister said, stopping from attempting a hug.

"I hope you had no trouble finding your way?" asked Lady Callum. "I assume it is no mere guess to say, 'we have Ms. Granger to thank for your being able to be with your family on this special occasion!'" and then turned her bright blue eyes on her, making her wish even more that she could have been else where.

"Ms. Granger was nice enough to assist me!" He replied keeping his gaze on his mother.

"Well then we must be grateful to Ms. Granger for her assistance mustn't we Minister," she said

"We must,' replied the Minister with an honest smile that made Hermione, at least for the moment, forget the discomfort she was feeling.

"We could almost overlook the clear violation committed by Ms. Granger in exposing the Magical World to an apparent Muggle!"

"Well, thank you all for making it today, especially to you Harry, Ronald and Hermione, after all this is more for you than the rest," said Lady Callum with a smile that was not the least bit as comforting as that of the Minister, and then half turning away from the crowd she continued: "Now come dear, Pansy Parkinson is here, I am sure she would pleased to find you were able to keep her company today!"

However, Daemon made no signs of following her, even as the Minster did, he just stood his ground.

"I am sorry mother," he said, again with surprising calmness, "as I said before, I am unable to keep Ms. Parkinson company. Besides it would be quite rude on Ms. Granger for me to leave her having come with her!"

Lady Callum turned back, her beautiful long face twisted into a grimace of surprise that disappeared as fast as it appeared. She then turned her eyes on Hermione, with renewed coldness.

"I fear you do not understand what you are saying my dear!" she said, to Hermione's relief, turning her full gaze on Daemon. But Daemon remained unmoved.

"My dear, you must not burden yourself with Ms. Granger's feelings; I'm certain that she wouldn't mind if you leave. In fact, I'm confident that she would prefer the opportunity of being with Mr. Weasley here" giving Ron a glance from the corner of her eye. "After all, the Wizarding world is abundant with tales of their love, is it not Minister?" she continued, but this time the Minister didn't reply, he just glance sympathetically towards Daemon; who was slowly starting to lose the façade of composure that was there before.

However, if she had thought Lady Callum was done, she was not; she had one last shot left to break Daemon's defiance: "Admirable as it is for Ms. Granger to sacrifice her heart for the Ministry, we cannot ask her to sacrifice any more, now that need for secrecy is no more. Isn't that so Minister?" Again the Minster didn't respond, and, in fact, looked as if he would prefer not to have been there as well.

When Hermione turned towards Daemon, it was clear that his mother's insinuations hadn't been lost to him, nor the reason for making them (for some reason); she couldn't remember a time she had seen his face so contorted with rage, not even when they had landed in Hogsmead.

"If everyone would excuse me, I think I would like some fresh air!" he said, and started to walkaway; she wanted to reach out to him, and try to say something; to apologies, to explain but no words came. All she could do was turn towards the Minister, who stared back at her with a long look of understanding.

"Where do you think your going?" asked Lady Callum, losing her own composure. But Daemon didn't respond but continued to walkaway.

"By the way Mother," he said suddenly, stopping and turning back towards them "before you start considering whether to punish Hermione for revealing your little secret, its best you know this: I was well aware of the existence of this secret world of yours, long before Hermione brought me here, and you can thank yourself for that. In fact, it was I who was protecting your little secrets from all those so-called Muggles you love to invite into the house; I was the one who would make certain all those documents, you had the tendency of leaving exposed, were tucked away; confidential documents. But then, isn't that what families are suppose to do, look after each other?"

Lady Callum watched, all need to maintain her façade forgotten, her mouth open gapping wide as Daemon continued to walk off towards the exit.

And then she recovered, and exploded with surprising fury, as she, forgetting where she was, screamed after Daemon:

"**Morgan, Alistair, James, Ignotus Callum**"


End file.
